Murder of a Royal Pain

“No,” Andrea admitted. “We didn’t really see the whole thing. Only the back of some guy shoving you out of the street and a big car roaring away. Did anyone see anything else?” she asked the others, who all shook their heads.

“But I did call the police.” Laurie added, “They should be here any minute.”

As if her words had conjured it up, the distant sound of a siren grew louder. Everyone waited in silence as a squad car pulled up next to them and Roy Quirk got out.

He frowned when he saw Skye. “I should have known you’d be here.”

“Hey, I’m the victim.” Skye was in no mood for any of his crap. “Someone nearly ran me over; then instead of seeing if I was okay, the driver fled the scene.”

“Whoa.” Quirk took a pad and pen from his breast pocket. “Start from the beginning.”

After Skye told him what she remembered, he asked the people standing around, “Did any of you get the make, model, or license plate of the car?”

They shook their heads.

“Anyone recognize the driver?”

More shakes of the head.

“Can anyone identify the guy who pushed Miss Denison out of the way?”

Everyone remained silent, except Kay Lynn who volunteered, “He had a great butt. I’m positive I’d recognize it if I saw it again.”

“Thank you.” The muscle beneath Quirk’s right eye twitched. “I’ll be sure to get in touch with you if we ever have a rear-end lineup.”

The crowd snickered.

“Since you didn’t see anything, you all can leave now.” Quirk made shooing motions with his hands. “And when I say now, I mean immediately.”

After the group dispersed and she was alone with Quirk, Skye asked, “So what are you going to do? I could have been killed.”

“Not much we can do with no witnesses or evidence.” He shrugged. “It was probably some old lady who mistook the gas pedal for the brake.”

“You don’t think it might have something to do with the murder?” Skye couldn’t believe he wasn’t admitting those events could be connected. “Didn’t Wally tell you that a couple of weeks ago I received a threatening note and my tire was slashed?”

“Yeah. He told me.” Quirk’s face turned an ugly shade of red, and his eyes blazed. “I don’t appreciate your running to him every time you don’t get your way.”

“What are you talking about?” Skye sputtered. Why was Quirk getting so huffy and defensive? “I might be the intended victim.”

“There’s no evidence that the killer was after anyone but Annette Paine. I’m not going to let you sidetrack the few resources I have from that investigation and send everyone on a wild-goose chase.” Quirk got into the car. “I know you like being the center of attention, but it’s not going to happen while I’m in charge.”

“But—” Skye cut herself off, took a calming breath, then said, “I’ve been threatened, almost run over, and Annette was in a costume she wasn’t supposed to be wearing.”

“Your ‘threatening’ note was probably from some kid you’d ticked off, and lots of people knew Mrs. Paine was dressed as a witch. She threw a very public fit when Mrs. Miles didn’t show up, and she made it clear she would take her place.”

“Oh.” Skye hadn’t known that. “But why was she in my assigned spot?”

“You arrived late and have a reputation as a bit of a flake.” Quirk started to close the squad car’s door. “My best guess is that she was checking up on you.”

He flashed Skye a smirk that she wanted to rub off his face with an electric sander. The word butthead clamored to pass her lips, but she bit her tongue. Mouthing off wouldn’t do any good. And although Quirk was patronizing her, he was telling her details of the case he would otherwise refuse to share.

Before driving off, he said, “Whoever murdered Mrs. Paine probably followed her, and when he or she saw she was alone—since you weren’t where you were supposed to be—he killed her.”

Shit! Skye hobbled toward her Bel Air, her knees aching from her fall. Could Quirk be right? Had her tardiness given the murderer the opportunity he or she needed? Maybe Annette was the intended victim after all. Maybe the driver of the car that had nearly mowed her down really was a confused senior citizen.

Engrossed in thought, Skye opened the door of her Chevy and began to slide inside. Before she had settled into the seat, a deep-timbred voice asked, “Are you okay?”

Her scream was loud enough to make the statue of Saint Francis in front of the church come to life. Skye put a hand to her chest, trying to slow down her heartbeat so she could speak. “You can’t be here. Get out right now.” All she needed were new rumors floating around about her having an affair with Kurt Michaels.

“That’s a cold way of greeting the man who saved your life.” The reporter grinned back at her from the Bel Air’s passenger seat.

“You were the one who pushed me out of the way?”

“Yep.”

“Did you see who was driving or get the license number?” Skye asked. “Why didn’t you stick around?”